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A ^/^'^ 

TRIBUTE TO JAMES 
WHITCOMB RILEY 

AND 

Other Poems 



By 
THOMAS HOWARD HUDSON, M. D. 




KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI 

BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 

Publishers and Booksellers 






COPYRIGHTBD I917 
BY 

BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
Kansas City, Missouri 



.lyi -3 i9l3 



DEDICATION. 

To all who 
In fancy, would pursue 
The peoples' Poet Laureate 
Beyond the Pearly Gate, 
May see him meet 
Upon the Golden street, 
The friends of Auld Lang Syne. 

Already, you have guessed 
The first— 

His mother — and the best, 

God ever gave. 

Or mortal man could have. 
The next her love almost divine 
On Earth — "That old sweetheart of mine.' 
Then "Old Aunt Mary" — friend of youth. 
His friend "Doc Scifers" — soul of truth. 

The raggedy man. 

Little Orphant Ann — 

le, dear little waif 
Safe. 
Ten thousand more who loved him here, 
Rejoice to meet him there. 



To all in native land 

Who understand 

The song he sings 

Of common things 

How common ground 

Is changed to golden sand 

Where fairest flowers upspring 

Beneath his magic wand. 

To all an earth 

Who meditate 

Upon his worth 

And celebrate 

The day that gave him birth 

Whose fancies still pursue 

Him through 
The golden streets 
Well met by all he meets. 

To all friends here 

And everywhere. 
Who still his memory revere, 
This tribute slight, but true 

We dedicate 

To you. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

A Tribute To James Whitcomb Riley 9 

Our Boys 14 

Sue 16 

Dick Lovingood 17 

Our Boys At The Game Of Punch 22 

Woman 23 

Kentucky 25 

The Dentist 28 

"Doc Shootem" 31 

Sant Brooks 41 

The Man From Nantucket 44 

Camping Out 45 

Dick Riggs 49 

My Darting 53 

Helen Dare 54 



A TRIBITE TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

Of one for whom friends mourned as dead, 

Our friend, our poet Riley said: 

I cannot say, and I will not say. 

That he is dead; he is just away. 

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, 

He has wandered into an unknown land. 

And left us dreaming how very fair 

It needs must be, since he lingers there. 



So now, say we, his friends of him. 
Our modest poet Hoosier Jim. 
He is not dead, nor far away; 
He's only past the brim. 

The narrow rim 
Of night 

Into the light 
Of day. 
He so enjoyed the fair, the bright, 
The beautiful; so loved sunlight; 
That as 'twas often cloudy here. 

This friend of yours and mine. 

Just simply moved up there 

Into the bright sunshine. 
9 



Ten 



'Twas dark enough for us the night 
He left, but, bless his heart, starlight, 
Was light enough to guide him straight 
Through Heaven's blue, to Heaven's gate. 

The gate was locked; 

But from inside. 

When Riley knocked, 

A sentry cried: 

"Who's here?" 

(When Jim's old Hoosier land was new. 

With bands of "Injuns" roving through 

It, settlers, if disturbed at night. 

Bolted the door, put out the light. 

And quick as scat, aye, quick as winks! 

Thrust rifle muzzles through a chink 

Before a thoughtless man could think, 

And shouted loud: 'Speak up, who's here?" 

If foe the foe had best beware 

If friend, the answer was "Hoosier!" 

So this is how that word became 

The Hoosier's password, and his name.) 

Jim thought he caught the dear old word — 
The old password, and thanked the Lord; 
So when the sentry asked who's here, Jim promptly 
answered : 

"I, Hoosier!" 

Then said the guard: 

"You have the word, 

But what's your name?" 

"It's just the same," 

Drawled Jim, "Up here 

It was down there." 



Eleven 



The sentinel somewhat perplexed, 
Somewhat surprised, and slightly vexed, 

Said: "See here now, 

I want to know 

Just what and how 

You did below?" 

Jim, thus adjured, 

The guard assured. 

That he sometimes 

Wrote Hoosier rhymes. 



"Are you the man," the guard inquired, 
"The Hoosier man who was inspired, 
To bid the angels come and board 
With him, and said he could afford 
To have them hang around all fall, 
And make no charge for grub at all? 
Just keep them for their company, 
And feed them fine and feed them free? 
And did you hint of pumpkin pies. 
And turkey browned and basted nice. 
The time you wrote of turkey cocks. 
And pumpkins and the fodder shocks? 
Are you the chap who used to say: 
It's got to be, and gwine to be. 
So 'taint no use to throw a fit. 
Just better make the best of it? 
And, did, you on one rainy day. 
When skies were sullen, dull and gray, 
Look past the clouds and smile and say: 
It's cloudy now; yes, to be sure. 
But morning skies will be the bluer. 
Suppose the thunder clouds do lower, 
'Twill only be a summer shower. 



Twelve 



And then besides, these summer showers 
Make greener grass and brighter flowers. 
Suppose it rains and rains all day, 
I guess it won't but, then, it may, 
But 'spose it does — well, let it rain! 
Tomorrow's sun will shine again." 



Then Riley modestly confessed, 
That, well, perhaps, he rather guessed 
He was the chap. He meant no harm — 
Was raised, he said, upon the farm, 
And country things was all he knew 
About; and so, therefore, his view 
Was limited to common things. 
And common folks, and, so I ging 
He says: "I guess I'll step aside."' 
Just then the pearly gates swung wide. 
The guarding sentry stepped outside. 
And said: "In records kept up here. 
Your record shows up fairly clear; 
Hazy and dim, at times in spots. 
But legible in spite of blots. 
Done things you might have left undone, 
Neglected some you might have done. 
But all the time you've kept in view 
The other fellow; so to you 
We've this to say, an(i glad to say; 
You've brightened child^ood's holiday 
With 'Childhood Rhymes,' your facile pen 
Has brought delight to grown up men; 
You claim no creed; and to be sure 
No human creed can long endure; 
And. anyway, no mortal creed 
Can ever meet immortal need. 



Thirteen 



You are not faultless, Hoosier Jim, 
But you can rest your case with Him 
Who said: 'A cup of water given 
Shall find a recompence in Heaven. 
Not perfect. No, none are. But then. 
What you have done, what you have been, 
And what you've meant to other men, 
Are things that count and things that win. 
Come on!" And Hoosier Jim walked in. 



Fourteen 

OUR BOYS. 

Our boys have gone over, 

Friend, brother, fond lover, 
^ oung husband, and father, whose faith never 
faUers 

Trusting God and the right 

They're gone into the fight 
To defend and protect their homes and their ahars. 

The lesson Old Glory 

Has taught is the story 
Of peace to be won through war's wild commotion, 

Not the menace to life 

Not the tears of a wife, 
Can quench the hot flame of a patriot's devotion. 

Uncle Sam my seem slow. 

Just seem so you know, 
But wait 'till he gets his brave boys into battle, 

The Germans will muster 

And bullj'^ and bluster, 
Then stampede like herds of wild Texas cattle. 

Uncle Sam jolly well 

Knows what he should tell 
And what it is safest to keep under cover. 

Let us never deceive him, 

Forever believe him, 
Nor harken at all to the voice of another. 



Fifte 



Our boys have gone over, 

They are not in clover, 
But they're willing to tackle their share of hard tack 

They knew they were sent for. 

They know what they went for, 
And they'll get it, you bet you, before they come 
back. 



Sixteen 

SUE. 

Far too lovely to last 

Were the days of the past, 
When the gallant school boy found pleasure, 

In writing in rhyme, 

In tune and in time, 
A song to his heart's dearest treasure. 



My girl's name was Sue, 

And her eyes were as bli 
Deep blue as the depths of the ocean. 

Her hair was spim gold, 

And she loved me and told 
.Me, and gave me her heart's devotion. 



How I loved that fair child, 
God but knows — I was wild; 

My love beyond human expression; 
Her radiant smile, 
Would bewitch and beguile 

A saint on his knees at confession. 



They told me my passion 

Would cool and its fashion 
Would change, and my girl cease to love me; 

But her eyes are as blue. 

To me still and as true 
As the stars to the blue above me. 



Seventeen 

DICK LOVINGOOD. 

A feller in our naborhood 
Name of Dick Lovingood, 
Had come there with his pa, 
And later on his ma 
Come; she bein' delicate 
Had stayed behind to wait 
Till Dick an' the ole man 
Had got things spic an' span. 

An' they done it, too. 

You bet you; 
Rented Bill Sherwood's ole shack, 
An ole tumbled down rack 
I V a place, an' made it shine 
Inside and out; it looked fine. 
New boards on roof, white washed outside, 
Rat holes all stopped inside. 
Walls scrubbed and patched, 
Doors fixed so they latched, 
Yard gate hung so she'd swing 
And just above everything; 
Done to make the place look like home 
To mother when she'd come. 
An' mind you, Dick had done it all. 

His pa had got a job till fall 
(An' this was spring), at Lye Morr's mill, 
That kept him humpin all the time till 
Way in the night, sometimes midnight, 
An' startin' in afore daylight. 
So Dick had the bag to hold at 
The house, an' held it, too, at that. 
Planted just every kind of flower 



Eighteen 



Till people called it the bower. 

Bill Sherwood drivin' by one day, 

Called Dick and said, "Young feller, say, 

You'll not have much rent to pay 

This year, anyway." 



Purlv soon Dick's mother come home. 

An' then we all knowd how Dick come 

By all his nolege and good sense. 

The parson said, "Whenever men's 

Mothers are like her, 

You needn't fear. 

They'll make men of boys every time, 

In every land and every clime. 

If you boys want a good example 

You'll find Dick a tip top sample." 



A thousand times I've thanked the Lord 
For sendin' us Dick Lovingood. 
How could he help bein' what he 
Wus, with such a mother as she 
Wus. She didn't seem above us neither. 
An' neither did Dick, either. 



At first we was sorter shy 

An' give the place the go-by. 

But Lordy — inside a week 

We'd go out uv our way to speak 

To her. Bet you we'd go a mile 

To here her voice and see her smile. 



Ninete 



Winter an' summer, spring an' fall. 

Twice a week at least, the year all 

Round, boys and girls (an' ole folks, too. 

Sometimes) met at their house to do 

Some stunt or other, recitin, 

Ur props readin' our own writin', 

Essays, they called them. I never 

Could make much headway, an' ever 

Time I'd beg to be excused 

I never out and out refused 

Because that was aganst the rool 

Of our school. 



Always, whenever I could, 

I'd git some boy, if he would, 

To read my essay fer me. 

The drated thing would scare me 

So. But they said they couldn't spell 

Ner pernounce my words, ner tell 

What I ment. I'd a quit purty quick 

Ef it hadnt been fer Dick. 

He stood by me threw thick an' thin, 

An' said "Stick to it an' you'll win." 

Course I didn't try fer stronomy, 

Ner hanker fer triggeronomy. 

Mrs. Lovingood could teach em, 

Shore; but I couldn't reach em. 

Some of the boys did, an' clum 

High up the ladder, an' some, 

They say, plays billiards with the stars 

And not one got behind the bars. 



Twenty 

As fer me I didn't espire 

To fly any hier, 

£r strike a faster gate 

Then I could keep up at, 

But then 1 couldn't even writ this 

Durnd easy as it is, 

Ef it hadn't been fer the pick 

Of all creation, I mean Dick, 

And his dear beloved mother; 

Think of one, you think of tother. 



Well to make a long story short, 

I'm writn' this becos I ort 

To show respects to my best friends 

An' also show how much depends 

On how we play the game down heer, 

Played well, we'll win the stakes up thar. 



Dick Lovingood was about fifteen 

When he came thar, maybe sixteen, 

An' when he left thar just three years 

After, the whole atmasfear 

L V the place wus better breathin, 

We was all upset at his leavin, 

An' right away belt a meetin, 

An' first off sent a greetin 

To the foot-ball team uv the colege 

Where he'd gone to git his noledge. 

He gained it, too, an' more than that 

Medals, prizes, at least a hat 

Full and jist about the whole lot 

They had to give he got. 

Father an' mother mov'd up thar 



Twenty-one 



Whar Dick wus. His second year 
He was lected to the cheer 
Of English langidge at a Lump- 
In good salry enuff to bump 
Up agin a big copper mine, 
At least got big an' turned out fine. 
But he stuck to school work all the same 
An' he come out with honor and fame, 
An' enough earthly treasure 
To devote his time to pleasure. 



But no! if he can 
He'll work out a plan 
To so change the laws 
As to help out the cause 
Of best education 
Throughout the whole nation. 



My story is done 

Excep that Dick run 

For Congress and won. 

An' say, don't you know 

It was glory to go 

An' vote fer a feller you know is just so, 

An put up a fight 

Fer a man that's allright. 

He envited me down 

To Washington town, 

An' says I shall have the time of my life, 

'Cept when they shivareed me an' my wife; 

I'm too full of delight 

To write poetry to night 

But I'm goin 



Twenty-two 

On throwin 

Dull care to the wind, 

I>eavin all uv my troubles an' sorrows behind, 

An' I'll bet you he'll be 

Just as glad to see 

As I will to see him at the top of the tree. 



OUR BOYS AT THE GAME OF PUNCH 

The Britons are as brave as they make 'em, 
So are Freeh men any way you take 'em. 
Put this in your pipe to smoke after lunch. 
Our boys beat the world at the game of punch. 

They don't seek for fights, 

They may sleep on their rights. 
But they're Devils from Hell when you wake 'em. 

The kaiser thinks we are too lazy. 
Too fat and too slow and too easy; 
He will get a tremendous big hunch 
When he finds our bovs there in a bunch. 

When he sees our hard push, 

When he feels our strong rush, 

He'll somewhat change his mind 

For he'll certainly find 
His infernal old empire knocked crazy. 

The world must be won for democracy, 
Or lost 'neath the heel of autocracy. 
The world can be free if 'twill only be brave. 
There's room for the free man, no room for the 
slave. 

It is up to our land 

To reach out the hand, 
The strong hand to friends across the dark sea. 



Tiventy-three 

WOMAN. 



The sweetest and fairest, 
The dearest and rarest. 
Of all the world's flowers, 
Bloomed first in fair Eden, 
God's beautiful garden. 
And since then in ours. 



Although the last planted 
Its beauty enchanted 
The Lord of creation. 
And ever since then 
Has possessed for all men 
The same fascination. 

In lands occidental 

This bud oriental. 

Is found at its best. 

And our own dear Westland 

Aye! Aye! and the best land, 

In blessing is blest. 

Lands wild and chaotic 
This lovely exotic 
Made to blossom and bloom. 
It has hallowed the hearth 
And the home and filled earth 
With rarest perfume. 



Tuenty-fouT 



Mankind in all ages, 
Conditions and stages; 
Savages, sages, 
Princes and yeoman 
Have sipped the sweet wine 
From love's clinging vine. 
And have knelt at the shrine 
Of beauty divine. 
Incarnate in woman. 



If here she has lightened 
The load, and brightened 
The road as we've striven. 
How radiantly white 
Will she be in the light, 
The white light of heaven. 



If down 'neath the blight 
Of earth stain and night, 
Transcendently fair. 
What must she be then 
When she blossoms again 
In the good world up there. 



Twenty-five 



KENTUCKY. 

Your pictur' of the open fire 
Keepes a-drawin' of me higher 

To the blue grass 

An' gyardin' sass, 

Jowl an' greens, 

Wonder beans, 

Wortermillion, 

An' a billion 

Other things — 

By jings!— 

That plum filled up 

The cup 

Of joy 

An' run mine over when a boy. 



Coal to burn? 
Well, gol durn! 
An' you say 
That I may 
Pile it higher 
On the fire? 
That suits me 
To a tee! 



Any chips wharwith to kindle, 
When the blaze begins to dwindle? 
An' you say there's sulphur worter? 
Don't I recollect — I oughter — 
That ole spring down by the river? 
Aye! could I forget it ever? 
Never, never! 



TuentYsix 



I am tired of this cold city, 

An' its fogs an' clouds. I pity 

Folks what have to always live here; 

Bet your boots I'm goin' to give her 

A wide berth! I'm a comin' 

Whar I'll hear the bess a-hummin'^ 

An' the speckled pheasant drummin' 

Even in the winter season; 

Yes, indeed! an' that's the reason 

I'm not grievin' 

At the leavin.' 



Then besides you say I'm wanted, 
An' that you'll be disappointed 
An' kinder glum ef I don't come 
Up to your house; so you say. 
You have music night an' day; 
Hooray! Music instrumental, 
Vocal too an' incidental — 
Ly a baby! How old is he? 

Bet he keeps the grown-ups busy 

Lookin' after him; but maybe 

He's a girl — a sweet girl baby. 

Bully if he is— far you know, 

1 love baby girls the best; I do 

Love 'em lots when they're little, though 

I love 'em better as they grow, 

Plum 'til they're grown; an' then, My! U! 

Love 'em Uh m-m Uh! I love 'em so. 



Well! I guess I'm purty lucky, 
Gittin' back to ole Kentucky; 
Winters there are warm an' shorter; 



Twenty-seven 



People there can even sorter, 

Live out doors. Christmas comin', 

Don't prevent the bees from hummin' 

Nor interfere with pheasants drummin'. 

Evenings there you'll hear the trill, 

Uv the tuneful whippoorwill, 

An' any time of day the shrill 

Whistle of the cheerful quail; 

Yes, an' you'll see squirrels playin' 

Rainy days, any days, day in 

An' day out, an' fish a bitin', day or night; 

Game fish, hoopee! 

Black bass fightin'! such a fight. 

Plucky as a mountain trout; 

An' keeps it up it'll plum played out. 



Yes, I guess I'm sorter lucky, 
Gittin' back to Ole Kentucky. 
Where the grasses bluish hue 
Blends with skies of deeper blue; 
Where thoroughbreds are still as fast. 
As in the races of the past; 
Where native men are still as fine. 
As in the days of auld lang syne; 
Where women are as fair as when, 
All the men were gentlemen. 
My friends — the friends I knew of old, 
"True as steel and good as gold," 
Are there; I'm comin' back to them, 
Yes, I am! indeed, I am, 
I'm comin' to the dear old sod, 
Comin' home agin. 

Thank God! 

Thank God! 



Twenty-eight 

THE DENTIST. 

Dear Denial Friend, how sweet (sometimes) I 

think 
To meet with thee, and oh. how hard to part! 
How strong the tie, how like to steel the link 
That tugs and strains — not at the heart! 
Ah! No! 'twere there the links might snap and 

hreak — 
The heart remain in situ; but, forsooth, 
The heartache's nothing! Nothing to the ache 
That severs friendship welded to a tooth. 
Toothache prevails in age, heartache in youth. 

I've had them both; I've felt the pain — the pang 

Of broken ties, and unrequited love, 

But I declare, the roar, the rattle and the twang 

Of parting tooth and jaw is pain above 

The punishment reserved for you below. 

I scarce believe that Hell's capacious maw 

Holds fiend more merciless than one we know 

As dentist — twisting, wringing, tooth or jaw — 

Old Nick's hard hand were velvet to that paw. 

Scarce twenty years have passed since I the pang 
Of parting with a double molar felt; 
And now the dentists don't extract a fang, 
But crown the tooth they once would have ex- 
pelled! 
And other things they do unique and strange! 
Build bridges, tunnel, drill and excavate 
Like miners underground, and so arrange 
That teeth like king's, may eat from golden plate, 
Regardless how their predecessors ate. 



Twenty-nine 

Some twenty years perhaps, or more ago 
When silver coinage free was all the go, 
An Irish orator said that nayther 
A goldbug, nor any dintist ayther 
Will see Hiv'nl Sure an' Oi'v a wurrd to shpake 
To thim Goldbugs, an' it's thim thot don't care 
If a poor divil shtarves, nor phwat he'll take 
To kape up his shpirits nor wash down his fare; 
Loikwise the dintist! Begorry, he'll make 
A jew'lry shop of yer mouth loike enough, 
But Oi'll bet you saxteen to one he'll take 
More gould from yer purse than he laves in yer 
mouth. 



I can't keep up with dental lore — too late, 

Too early or too tired was born, and so 

T practice physic; when by chance or fate 

I blunder (as my creed permits) I go 

And cover my mistake from sight! But you 

My dental friend, can't bury your disgrace; 

It will not die, nor down, nor hide from view. 

But haunts, pursues, o'ertakes, at time and place, 

You'd sooner meet the Devil face to face. 



Ah well! In spite of all your faults, I love 

You. Love you! Aye, indeed, with all my heart! 

I hope that when we (if we) meet above! 

You'll have left your forceps. And we shall part 

No more; abruptly as we've parted here. 

And sometimes I have thought your plan to face 

The music here, was best, for when up there 

We're called upon, it may be I more grace. 

More mercy, and more pity, then may need 

That Heav'n can show to me, and my poor creed. 



Thirty 

When you gel through and done down here be^- 

neath 
The sun, and try if Heaven will let you in, 
(You who have lived by other peoples teeth), 
I hope you'll make it. if but by the skin 
Of yours; for God is merciful and kind. 
And Oh! if you get through, the chance for me 
Will be increased a thousand fold, my mind 
Will be at rest, for I shall know that I'll be 
Saved ! Saved for time and all eternity. 



Thirty- 



"DOC SHOOTEM." 

I was a young doctor of old school persuasion 
— a new doctor in an old community — a young, 
new, old school doctor in a Godforsken old di 
lapidated village in southern Indiana. The vil- 
lage was located in a swamp known as the Mus- 
catitac Valley, where malaria was so thick that 
a man sleeping under it had to have help to turn 
over. The denizens of this unhappy valley had 
ague all the year round. They went into winter 
quarters yellow as pumpkins, poor as Job's turkeys, 
thin as razor backs, and came out in the spring 
looking like ghosts of their departed fathers. 

Shortly after I had hung my shingle to the 
breeze in this invigorating atmosphere one of the 
rotund citizens called on me for a prescription. 
He had had chills for years and no doctor had 
been able to break them. 

He detailed his symptoms, chill in the back 
preceded and attended by thirst for cold water, 
which made him shiver and shake; cold places 
between his shoulders, which felt better when he 
got it "het up" and all the rest of it, which meant 
nothing to me. His symptoms were of no con- 
sequence. He was a patient with ague, I was 
a doctor with Quinine, and I thought all that was 
necessary was to give enough of it. It cost five 
dollars an ounce, and those poor wretches never 
had money enough at one time to buy a drachm. 
The doctors had to furnish it, and I supposed 
that my coajutors or competitors, as you please, 



Thirty-two 

had been illiberal in its exhibition; so to make 
amends for their parsimony, or, rather to score 
a triumph by my own liberality, I gave it with- 
out measure or weight, bountifully and repeatedly 
unstintedly and continually. Gave it until the 
roaring artillery and the rushing cataract in his 
head would have made a picnic of Waterloo and 
a babbling brooklet of Niagara. 

I had added a symptom but that was all, for 
he came back saying: "Doc, I'm deef'r'n a post, 
but you haint shuck them chills." 

Then I gave him Arsenic — Fowler's solution — 
until the tumefaction of his eyelids obscured the 
light of day; and additional symptom but the 
shakes still "unshuck." Being now both deaf and 
blind he concluded it was about time to call a 
halt. So did I. I was as willing to quit as he 
was. Subsequently some old "granny woman" 
induced him to drink a cup of strong red pepper 
tea which knocked his chills, as he said, higher'n 
Gilderroy's kite, and so far as I know they never 
came down. I never heard of their return. I did 
not tarry long in that vicinity, but sought a more 
salubrious clime. Failure to shake the shakes 
had shaken my faith in the shake shakers. My 
sheet anchors Quinine and Arsenic had failed, and 
I was all at sea not only without an anchor but 
with neither chart nor compass. I hoped to make 
a port where a diversity of diseases would suggest 
a variety of drugs. 

My failure to interrupt the periodical parox- 
ysms of ague left such an impression that sub- 
sequently I got to ruminating over it and rhym- 
ing about it with the result I hereby offer, sub- 
ject to your own appraisement. 



Thirty-three 



Doc Shootem, who lived in the hills, 

Believed he could cure human ills 

Of every degree and kind; 

All ills of body or mind, 

From brain storm to fever and chills. 

With Arsenic, Strychnine, 

Opium, Quinine, 

And compound cathartic pills. 

He was Regular, and he was young, 
Had no brains to spare, but his tongue 
His own praises could sing, and it sung! 
The surplus of brass in his cheek 
Far exceeded the gold in his purse. 

The best we can say when we speak 
Of him is that he might have been worse. 
The swamp, half a mile from his door. 
Was teeming with sickness galore — 

Especially chills, 

Aesculapius fils — 
Said, "I'd like to see one I can't cure." 

Jack Hardman lived down in the bottom, 
A good place to get chills, and gotem. 
He said: "The folks down thar had had 'em 
Every since God A'mighty made Adam." 

Unlike Jack of fabled renown, 

Who with Jill climbed the hill and fell down 

Head foremost and fractured his crown, 

This Jack ascended the hills. 

Not seeking for water, but pills 

To break up his fever and chills. 



Thirty-four 

When enthused or excited Jack stuttered 

Over most of the words that he uttered. 

Accosting the medical man 

He said: "I will t-t-tell if I c-c-can 

How I f-f-feel when f-f-feelin' the w-w-wust. 

My back's w-w-whar they t-t-tackles me fust, 

An' my haid f-f-feels lak it would b-b-bust. 

An' then I gits d-d-dryer'n d-d-dust; 

B-b-b-but w-water d-don't hep m-me a b-b-bit, 

Hit b-brings on a s-s-s-s-shivern' f-f-fit 

An' ruther in-c-c-creases my thust." 

You don't need to tell me, my dear sir. 

How you feel, quoth Doc, never fear, sir, 

I shall make you some pills 

That will break up your chills 

And cure you as sure as you're here, sir. 



So he rolled his quinine dough 

Into pills, and I don't know 

How much each pill contained; but oh! 

They were big and they were bitter; 

Grains and grains in every pill ! ! 

Four big pills in every litter! 

Litter five times every day! 

Ought to cure him! You would say: 

I should think so, "cure or kill." 



A week passed away 
And the patient returned. 
Says he: "Doc, I'll be durned 
If I ain't c-chilled every day. 
I'm d-d-deefn a p-p-post. 
Throat's d-d-dry'r'n t-t-toast. 



Thirty-five 



C-c-cold waiter w-v\ -won't w-weter, 

An' I h-haint no uetter. 

L-l-look here, you damned cuss, 

If I 1-lose m-my h-hearin' 

Thar'll be somethin' doin' 

Round here'll spell r-ruin; 

Thar'll be somethin' w-wuss 

An' hotter fer you 

That all of the s-swearin' 

I'm able t-t-to d-do, 

An' yit I c-can m-make 

The atmosf-fear b-blue 

As the I-injun 0-o-ocean 

Whenever I take 

Nuff d-drinks and t-the n-notion, 

I'm s-sober now. Well's I s-say. 

You s-see me d-d-drunk an' hell's t-t-to p-pay.' 



Appreciating this appeal 

So strongly put by doughty Jack, 

Thus reasoned Doc: "I'll break that chill. 

Or, by the gods, I'll break his neck. 

I'll fix him so they won't come back. 

The idiot thinks that I'm a quack." 

Profoundly Doc soloquized : 

"I guess his liver's hepatized, 

His system must be tranquilized, 

His circulation equalized. 

Some Calomel to stir his liver, 

Soine Opium to cool the fever, 

Sonto Strychnine then to tide him over; 

Then Fowler's arsenic, that'll suit him 

And fetch mm round as well as ever. 

Sure as shot, and my name Shootem." 



7 hirty-six 



So unto the liver iiiov*t added he the anodyne, 
Then to this the tide hiro over. These thought he 

are right in line. 
The mass then into pills he mixetl. and said, aside, 

I'll have him fixt. 



"Now," said Doc, "my friend and brother 

Take these pills, then here's another 

Remedy; if this don't bust 'em 

You're about the toughest custom 

Er I've struck yet. 

So don't forget, 

Take this bottle full, and when 

It's empty call again; 

But you will be all right by then." 

"B-b-but D-d-doc"— ^ 

"You'll be all right; go long, go long." 

"A-all r-right then, D-d-doc. so long, so long."' 

A layman if wise, needs none to advise 

Great caution with P'owIer"s solution, 

By no means a rare substitution. 

For Quinine in chills; 

It oft tumefies the lids of the eyes. 

And full often kills. 

Those who dynamize 
And thus minimize 
A danger, are wise. 
For death in disguise, 
Is safest in high dilution. 
Soon the deaf man's eyes got puffy. 
Puffed until they closed together. 
Closed until they had to lead him. 
Lead or stake him to a tether. 
Got so blind they had to feed him. 



Thirty-seven 



Some one then proposed to bleed him; 
Then the deaf and blind got huffy. 
Hell! said he, I've b-b-been a b-b-bleedin' ; 
Deef, s-s-so d-d-deef c-c-can't hear it thunder; 
That cussed q-q-quack has made a b-blunder. 
B-b-blind; can't s-s-s-stir th-th-thout some one 

Meadin'. 
I s-s-swear he'd b-b-better s-stan' from under. 
Hain't no, no c-casion fer your f-f-frettin,' 
I agree th-thars b-b-blood wants lettin', 
An' it's s-s-safe t-to d-do your bettin' 
On the chance t-that I s-s-s-shall let 'er 
Flow, as soon as I gits better. 



Of doctors who doped and bled 

Their patient to death, 

A cynical Irishman said: 

Sure as long as there's breath 

In a body they're bleedin' 'im, 

Whin, begorra, they'd better be feedin' 

Thin whin anny poor divil goes lame 

They load all the guns they have got, 

Sit up a name for a shpot, 

Blaze away at the name, 

But missing thot same. 

They bag bigger game, 

For they fill the poor divil with shot. 



The Irishman's metre is doleful and long, 

For he sings a rather lugubrious song; 

But it surely is true 

That one of the two 

Great systems of healing is wrong. 



Thirty-eight 

Two schools of medicine prevail, 
The one with labor and travail 
Brings forth a name; 
The other seeks to find the causes 
Of illness, then through Nature's laws 
Removes the same, 
Believing that the symptoms proved 
Will guide to what should be removed. 
To shorten a tale 
Already too long, 
We give you the sequel, 
And so end the song. 



Old Grandmother Lee 
Made some red pepper tea. 
And gave Jack a drink. 
And what do you think? 
Strange story to tell, 
At once he got well. 



A fakir I thought old Grandma Lee, 

A humbug her cup of pepper tea. 

The cure I thought a coincidence. 

Ascribed it to chance or Providence, 

For I could not conceive 

And I would not believe 

That fakirs and pepper could get grip 

On patients that doctors and drugs let slip. 

Consider what follows and you will see 

How chills may be cured by red pepper tea. 



Thirty-nine 



The Capsicum chill 

Begins with a thrill 

High up in the back, 

Attended by thirst, 

And also a knack 

Of being made worse 

By every cold drink. 

Now what do you think? 

And what do you say? 

Was Doc much to blame? 

If taught the same way; 

Perhaps you and I 

Would have done much the same. 



Could Doc have known that Quinine chills 
Have thirst before appearing. 
Are thirstless while the chill is on, 
And thirstless 'till the fever's gone, 
He might have saved his Quinine pills 
And spared Jack Hardman's hearing. 
Had Doc have known the bloating, the 
Peculiar thirst and fever. 
The weakness and the other things 
Which Arsenic ague always brings, 
Jack's eyelids had not swelled, and he 
Had seen as well as ever. 



But what is the use 

Of heaping abuse 

Upon Doc. Let's excuse 

Him and show him fair play. 

Regular and young. 

With less brains than tongue. 



Furtv 



And more cheek than either. 
And then having neither 
Experience nor law 
To guide him, he saw 
But the blackness of night 
Compared with the light 

Of to-day. 
But what shall we say 
Of the Regulars now; 
The old and the wise. 
Who will not use their eyes 
!\or their ears? Then how 
Shall we show them the way? 
Could they see if they would? 
Would they hear if they could? 
Will it pay if we try 
To show them? I say, 
If we try will it pay? 
You don't know, you reply, 
And neither do I. 
But the least we can do is to try. 

Aye! Aye! 
And the best we can do is to try; 
And living or dying 
Keep on trying. 



Forty-one 



SANT BROOKS. 

I knowed a feller once who had 
An awful appitite. I vow 
He could eat more than any lad 
Or man, I ever saw. An' some 
Said, "More than any beast, 
Except, perhaps, the elephant. 
Leavin' out hay and water least- 
Ways," they said they'd bet on Sant. 



Sant Brooks was the feller's full name; 
As boys we used to hunt for coon, 
Uv nights, and day time other game; 
It might be cloudy, rainy, moon- 
Lijght, starlight, or dark as pitch. 
And freezin' cold, he'd git his horn, 
And dogs, an' start — an' no odds, which 
Course, he'd ketch coons shore as you're born. 



I knowed him once clean up four coons 
At lunch, half grown they was, an' fat. 
He'd et no breakfast, slept till noon; 
Out all night before; but then, at that 
I thought it was an awful mess. 
For just one half-grown boy to eat; 
An' I said so to him — I says. 
Some day you'll founder on coon meat. 



But, no, sir! Sant never foundered. 
On the contrary he floundered 
Along until he was grown; 



Forty-two 

Had a wife and child, of his own, 
An' more dogs than anyone else. 
Anywhere in the county, I guess. 
Queer how he fed the pack, and him- 
Self. Well, Sant was awfully slim. 

On a little run-down farm 
They lived: wife, child and dogs; no harm 
In Sant. an" fun as known, no good. 
He'd hunt and trap, but work he would 
Not. No! his cabin roof might rot. 
And did, but, bless you he would not 
Mend it. "The barn roof's made of tar," 
He said, "an' we'll jist move down thar." 

Once he owned a first rate milk cow. 

His wife had raised by hand and now 

What does that idgit do but swap 

Cow for a saddle. Horse, donkey, lop- 

Eared mule, nothing on earth to ride. 

Not even the cow. Argified 

The saddle didn't eat, beside 

The cow might uv laid down an' died. 

One stormy windy night in March, 
Sant struck out with an ax, a torch 
And six picked dogs to tree a coon, 
Away they went and purty soon 
They treed him up a big tall oak. 
Sant walked round the tree and spoke 
Sharp to his favorite dog and said, 
Vd like to bust your blasted head, 
Fer treein up that great big tree. 
Much sympathy you have for me. 



Forty-three 



His tiresome task at last quite done, 
He ran aside to see the fun. 
"But best laid plans of mice and men, 
Gang aft agla," and so did then; 
The howling wind upset Sant's plan. 
Confused him also as he ran. 
The mighty tree broke cross the kerf 
And pinned poor Sant tight to the earth. 



A shattered knee, a broken thigh. 

He thought his time had come to die; 

The morning found him in despair, 

A farmer also found him there. 

And seizing Sant's resounding horn. 

Awoke the echoes of the morn. 

The neighbors heard, help soon arrived 

And Sant was rescued and revived; 

As soon as he could get his breath 

He murmured, "Well, this feels like death' 

"Did they catch that infernal coon?" 

"Hurry up boys, I may dies soon, 

But, live or die, I want to eat 

My stummick full of fat coon meat." 



Forty-four 

THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET. 

"There was once a man from Nantucket, 
Who kept all his cash in a bucket; 

But his daughter named Nan, 
Ran away with a man; 

And as for the bucket, Nantuck it." 

"Pa followed the pair to Pawtucket, 
The man and the girl with the bucket 

And he said to the man he was welcome to Nan, 
But as for the bucket, pa tucket." 

"The pair followed pa to Manhasset, 
Where he kept all his cash at an assit,, 

Then Nan and the man stole the bucket and ran, 
And as for the bucket man has it." 

"When pa got back to Nantucket, 
He had neither daughter nor ducat; 

And as for the man, he went back on Nan 
As soon as he'd emptied the bucket. 

Then Nan turned her hack on the bucket. 
And on the bad man who had tuck it. 

And said the next man who ran off with Nan 
Might furnish and fill his own bucket. 

But thinking she'd best bring the bucket. 
She brought it to pa, and pa tuck it. 

But looking within, 
And finding no tin. 

He licked Nan, and then kicked the bucket. 



Forty-five 

CAMPING OUT. 



I know'd a boy, could talk more, an' 

Write more about eatin' than 

Anybody else and eat less. 

He could write things I confess 

Would make me awful hungry, so 

Hungry that altho' 

I'd eat only an hour ago 

I'd sneak off and fill up agin. 

I eat so much it made me thin 

To carry it around sometimes. 

When I'd read his rhymes 

I'd dream of eatin' 

An' be a beatin' 

My way to the kitchen 

En pantry an' hitchin 

Up a chair, 

To reach things up there. 

This feller sometimes 

Jist talked in rhyme. 

I remember one night 

He got to writ- 

In bout nuts an' fruit. 

An' I saved his scraps uv paper 

An' got 'em right here. 

Dates, he said, were good an' oranges 

When lowed to ripen on the trees. 

But pull 'em green, 

As I've seen. 
An bring em more'n a thousand mile 
An' I don't think they're much worth while. 
Thare's other things that grow right here 
An' ripen after frost. 



Forty-six 

They may'nt suit you. but I don't care, 

Jist count the cost 

An' you'll agree 

With me. 

They beat imported nuts from anywhere 

Jist try it this a-way: 

Git out some fine October day. 

Wear ole clothes an' strong shoes that ci 

Through anything; don't take no lunch. 

Strike for the hickory woods, 

Don't think of work, just call it play; 

Take a bushel bsaket, or good's 

Anything a big meal bag. 

To carry home your swag. 

If thar's plenty of nuts on the ground, 

All right; if not you'll have to throw 

Clubs, rocks, anything that can be found 

Throwable anywhere around. 

Or else you'll have to go 

An' clime the tree an shake 'em down. 

Then find some sunny south hillside. 

A sort of comfy place to hide. 

Not that you care fer passerbys. 

Nor care so much for pryin' eyes 

As that you feel just in the mood 

For somehow seeking solitude. 

Now build a fire of any dead wood 

And build it on the win'ard side. 

You're warm enough and feelin' good 

'Cept something to be gratified 

Long about midways inside 

But crackin' nuts and sittin' still, 

While you, your empty stomicks fill, 

You find October kinder chill 

Before your hunger's satisfied. 



Forty-se 

Some can talk eatin by the mile 

An' yet eat nothin' much worth while. 

An' I've know'd 'em write 

Seem'd like for spite 

Jist to whet yore appetite. 

Jim Riley knew 

A thing or two 

Uv things to eat 

That's hard to beat. 



Fer example. 
As a sample 
IJv sweet meats 
His receits 
Fer homade 
Marrmelade, 
An' pumpkin pies 
With allspice 
An' cinimon 
In 'em. 



This, too, is true, 
He saw what you 
An' I 
Pass by 
Every day 
By the way- 
Side as we go 
To and fro 
An' pay no 
Attention to. 



Forty-eight 



He 

Could see 

Poetry 

In common things 

Like bubblin' springs 

An' country roads, 

Honey bees 

An' hop toads, 

Bloomin' trees, 

A harvest moon 

Er a Sunday noon 

Knee deep in June. 



And these would call to mind the shade 
By oak an' breach an' maples made 
Whar chums an' he together played 
Long years before — forty, maybe, 
Maybe more. 



An' if you please. 

Bout things like these 

Jim's super-sense 

Was just immense. 

An' all in all 

I think him tall- 

Er than the rest. 

An' better than the very best. 



Forty-nine 



DICK RIGGS. 

Ole Dick Riggs was as long an' lean 
As they amke "em — more like a bean- 
Pole than anything else. 
He owned an ole gray hoss named Nelse, 
An' forty acres of poor san- 

Dy Ian,' 
So poor it wouldn't sprout 
Black-eyed peas without 
Fertilizin', But no use 
Figgerin' on any produce 
Without it. So every spring 
Dick would hitch Nelse to the ole thing 
He called a waggin an' haul dirt 
From the creek bank an' spread it on 
A little patch uv his corn 
Lan', as he called it, an' it cert- 
Enly wus pore corn lan' at that, 
An' not room on it to skin a cat. 



But he'd scratch up the ground 
An' plant, an' then go round 
An' talk your arm off — never stop 
Talkin' bout his corn crop. 
One day up at Freemas store 
He was blowin' a little more 
Than usual. Had tanked up at sum 
Other feller's expense 
He'd met down at Bill Reppy's rum- 
Shop. Yellin' himself hoarse 
Bout the wuth uv his hoss. 
He cum splittin' the air 
Shoutin' an' swear — 



Fifty 

ln\ ''Ole Nelse wus the best 
Hoss on earth — east or west.'' 
Got down, hitched to the fence 
An' cum in, more pop-eyed 
Than ever, an' less tung tied. 



Right off he begun talkin' 

Hoss — how to cuore balkin' 

An' pullin' back when they's hitched 

An' a whole lot of sich 

Stuff. 
Heap mor'n enough. 



All at wunst outside thar wuz a fuss, 

A awful terrible muss. 

Nelse had pulled the fence down 

An' wus a snortin' 

An' cavortin' 

Around, 
Here an' there. 
Everywhere, 
1 p in the air 
Down on the ground, 
Lookin' round 
At his heavin' side 
Where Botes supposedly reside, 

Inside. 



Consultants speedily agreed 
The thing to do was either bleed 
Or drench the beast. 
Drenchin' would at least 



Fifty-one 



The cause determinate, 
An' probly exterminate 

The hot; 
If givin' hot 



The keeper of store agreed 
To furnish amply all the need 
Ev hot ingred- 
ients — also a long neck'd bottle 
To pour the stuff down Nelse's throttle. 



Nearby a forked saplin' grew 

The fork high up about the stretch 

Of a tall, long armed man's utmost reach. 

Dick pulled an' hauled an' drew 

The bosses head and mouth up to 

The fork, passed bridle reins through 

It to his side; looped 'em round his wrist 

Give 'em an' extry twist 

An' shoved the bottle neck down Nelse's throat. 



You never saw a billy goat 

Jump forard quicer'n Nelse jumped back, 

Quick es scat, 

Er quicker'n that 
Dick's pale blue poppin eyes eyes wus seen 
Up in the fork, wedged in 
Right where ole Nelse's mouth had been. 
Dick cust, and swore, 
An' swore some more. 
Begged 'em to shoot the Hoss plum thru, 
Or he'd be pulled right smack en two. 



Fifty-tu'o 

The boys pushed up Dick's feet but that 
Jist wedged him tighter where he's at. 
At last ole Nelse declar'd a truce, 
Walked up an' let his master loose. 



Dick scrambled down, 

Sprawled on the ground, 

Rubbed his wrist, 

Shook his fist 

An' said: 

"By Ned, 
That ole fool boss knowed well enough 
That ole Dick Riggs would call his bluff, 
Knowed mighty well it wan't no use 
To try to make me let him loose. 
I guess you boys all see, doggone 
That I am hell at holdin' on." 



Fifty -three 

MY DARLING. 

I want you at morn my darling, 
At first grey glimpse of dawn, 

When pearly tints 

Give faintest hints 
Of the awakening morn. 



I want you at noon time darlin* 
Morning is gone so soon, 

0, let me clasp 

With fervent grasp 
Your hand in mine at noon. 



I want you at evening darling, 
When day's receeding light, 

Reveals the stars — 

And sunset bars 
Are closed, and locked for night. 



I want you at midnight darling 
Be sure I want you then 

To press your breast 

To mine and rest 
Till morning dawns again. 



At morning and evening darling, 
At noon, by night, by day. 

My heart is thine 

Let thine be mine. 
Forever and for aye. 



Fifty-four 

HELEN DARE. 

I\o matter where we rove or roam, 
On solid land, or sounding sea, 
There is one place where we may be 
In Paradise — that palce is home. 
For home is where the heart's distress 
Finds comfort and contentedness; 
Aye! home is where the heart's desire 
Is altogether gratified: 
Where restless man is satisfied 
To rest beside the altar fire 
That glows for youthful groom and bride. 
For mother, daughter, son and sire; 
Where all things best on earth abide; 
Where all is well with soul and sense. 
And sorrow finds its recompense 
In faith, hope, love and happiness. 
You never can be happy far 
Away, or long from One Bright Star 
Come home, be happy "home is where 
The heart is;" here with Helen Dare. 
O, would the poet's muse imj)art 
To lips the pow'r to voice the heart! 



0, would the poet's muse unroll 
The scroll unseen within the soul! 
Come now, tuneful Muse inspire 
My soul ! and touch my lips with fire ; 
Come string my harp and tune my lyre 
That I may daringly aspire 
To sing of love as poets dare 
Devoted love of Helen Dare. 



Fifty-five 



If this petition be too bold, 

If I the passion must repress 

My ardent longings all suppress 

If I must sing of love the less 

I'll tune my harp like bards of old 

And sing the more of loveliness 

And more of woman's tenderness. 



Dear Muse, Sweet Muse, my thanks receive 

For inspiration; I perceive 

That I may sing, my harp is strung, 

The ancient bard again is young. 

May not my song of Helen Dare 

Be cold or cheerless, bleak or bare; 

But like the rustling rip'ning grain 

O'er rolling hill and waving plain. 

Or like the singing, laughing rill 

Through landscape's peaceful, tranquil still. 



May no loud thunders shock the ear, 
No crashing cymbals smite the air. 
No bugle blasts, no trumpets blow ; 
But rather be the gentle strain, 
The music of the falling rain 
On cottage roof and window pane, 
Soothing the weary heart and brain, 
Lulling to sleep all fear and care. 
Breathing of rest and peace and prayer. 
May heart and soul and lips and tongue 
Join in the sweetest song unsung. 
The song I dream of Helen Dare. 



FiitY-six 



Her cheek would make the lily fair 

Blush red as summer roses are, 

Aye, red as blithest rose of June, 

For whiter lillies there repose, 

And blushes there a blither rose. 

The wilding rose runs riot there 

From dawn 'till dusk, and dusk 'till dawn. 

And on the cheek of Helen Dare 

Bestows full oft a fond caress, 

Prints many a fond and fervent kiss. 



0. what a privilege to be 
A rose! What bliss! What ecstasy! 
Although the anxious rose is near. 
The modest lily feels no fear, 
The rose and lily there recline, 
The red and white together twine. 
And love and purity combine. 



Her eyes! Forget me nots would fade, 

Turn pale, and seek another shade 

Of blue within her deep, dark eyes. 

Those eyes! Those eyes! Not Heaven's blue 

Is deeper blue; nor Heaven's skies, 

More bright or clear, more kind or true. 

And yet, at times, those eyes are gray. 

And soft as Indian summer days; 

But while into their depths you gaze, — 

Their depths so deep, and far away, 

A golden, glim'ring, shim'ring sheen 

Of burnished brown will intervene; 

And brilliant scintilating rays 

Will sparkle, flash, and beam between 



Fifty-seven 



The blue and gray; and dance and play 
With both, and stay awhile, and blaze 
Like sunset fire. And then a haze — 
A dreamy haze; not dark nor bright; 
A tawny, misty, dusky light 
Falls o'er the gray, and blue, and brown, 
Like twilight when the sun goes down, 
A gray light like a winter sea, 
\et warm as Heaven's blue can be, 
With glint of sunset gold shot through, 
Like sunrise shaft through drops of dew, 
All blended so and intertwined. 
So intermingled and combined, 
That all soft shades beneath the sun 
Seem murged and melted into one. 



Like midnight shadow on the snow, Her raven 

waving, jetty hair 
O'ershades a calm, unruffled brow, a brow 

serene and calm and fair 
As dawn of morning, bright and clear. 
Her rosebud lips, when in repose, 
Her pearly teeth awhile conceal, 
'Till wreathed in smiles, those lips disclose 
The pearls, just as the budding rose 
In bloom, its beauty must reveal. 
And when like cupid's slackened bow. 
Those flexile lips are curved the while. 
In witching, winning, wondrous smile, 
The dearest, sweetest smile, I know. 
No flashing, quiv'ring, lightning dart 
Of cupid's, is more swift to go, 
Or straighter, surer to the heart. 



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